


we'll wait for the morning

by diets0dasociety



Series: saudade [3]
Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Gay Luke, God knows Ashton's sexuality, IT'S FINALLY HERE, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Pansexual Michael, So sad the saddest thing, Straight Calum, True Love, Vomiting, not sure what to tag that isn't already tagged in others
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 18:36:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6206062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diets0dasociety/pseuds/diets0dasociety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It took two weeks for Michael to crack.<br/>-<br/>Time has a funny way of escaping when it’s most needed, Luke had found. Whether that be days crawling agonizingly past as weeks or practically disappearing as seconds, inconsequential blips in the grueling span of a lifetime.</p><p> </p><p>or, Luke and Michael are finding their way home.</p><p> </p><p>3/3 of the Saudade series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we'll wait for the morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [infinitehearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinitehearts/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [TragedyOrComedy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TragedyOrComedy/gifts).



> Ahh! It's here! Sorry for the long wait guys, this proved very difficult to complete. I don't know if i love it as much as the first two parts, but it's definitely not as sad so I hope you enjoy.
> 
> As always, title is taken from 'Gone' by Boston Manor, the song that inspired every part of this series. Check it out.
> 
> (Gifted to you lovely people for the enthusiastic comments on the last part, thank you!)

It took two weeks for Michael to crack.

 

Two weeks of anxiously watching the apartment door, eyes flitting to the lock with every quiet thud or creak or barely-there scratch.

Fourteen days of silent encouragement staring back at him in the mirror as he remembered every syllable that had been caught in his throat for so long.

Three hundred and thirty six hours of ignoring the bottles that called to him from the counter but were less important than capturing every detail of the beautiful blue eyes he waited to look into.

Twenty thousand, one hundred and sixty minutes of holding onto straining threads of hope even as he crawled back under the cold sheets, alone and tired.

One million, two hundred and nine thousand and six hundred seconds of pushing back the tears that flooded through closed eyelids the minute his head hit the pillow with another defeated sigh.

 

It took two weeks for Michael to crack and finally call Calum back.

 

The thin sheet of dust that had formed atop the scratched and broken screen of Michael’s phone wasn’t the clearest indicator that it had been a while since he’d last talked to anyone, surprisingly enough. That honour belonged to the thirty six missed calls – fourteen from Calum, twenty-two from Ashton – and twelve unread messages – all from Ashton – that greeted Michael as his shaking fingers scrolled down to the familiar number.

 

He picked up after one dial tone.

 

“Michael?”

 

The exhaustion that laced Calum’s words was unexpected after such a fast pick-up, and Michael became very quickly aware that he had no idea what time it was and the moon was far too high for it to be anytime before midnight. Time had a funny way of escaping him in his newfound state of “wait.”

 

“Um, hi.”

 

Silence.

 

Michael shifted under his own weight; Calum was never one to be quiet on the phone, his love of interesting conversation always seemed to extend to prolonged pointless ramblings about sex and soul mates and god knows what else whilst on a call. The lack of annoying enthusiasm was unnerving.

 

“Calum? It’s Michael.”

 

And suddenly, as if confirmation was all that was needed, a deep breath of relief poured through the receiver, followed almost instantaneously by the chuckle that was so strikingly familiar to Michael.

 

“You scared the shit out of us.” Michael could hear the real relief, the real concern that was hidden beneath the light-hearted laugh that accompanied Calum’s words. The drop of guilt in his mind transformed to a wave that pulled Michael back down into the true gloom of the situation. Calum’s voice had always had the miraculous ability to remind Michael of happier days, back when they were younger; throwing notes with recklessly scrawled swear words across classrooms at each other, chasing one another round the garden with a football that was just a bit too deflated to bounce, wrapping their lanky limbs together in a heap after devouring two large pizzas and a litre of coke on Michael’s bedroom floor _(“No homo, bro.” “Oh shut the fuck up, Calum.”)_. The Calum of six months ago was Michael’s gateway to good times, the anchor to the happiness he couldn’t always find in his life – but Calum seemed to lose his smile the minute Michael lost his, and so the friendship between them had lost its unspoken healing powers.

 

“I’ve been waiting. I’m still waiting.”

 

His voice was barely audible, but Calum still went deathly quiet when the words slipped past Michael’s lips. Both boys knew what he was waiting for, neither of them brave enough to say it but too concerned to ignore, choosing to simply breathe down the line as each waited for something to break the silence. It wasn’t a long wait.

 

The unmistakable giggle of Ashton Irwin sauntered into Michael’s ears, a beautiful alleviation of the tension that crackled through the receiver. It was muffled and quiet, as you’d expect background noise to be, and was followed by the soft _thump_ of a body hitting a bed.

 

“Is that Ash?”

 

“Uh, yeah. He’s been here for a few days.”

 

“Why?” The shock in Michael’s tone wasn’t questioned; Calum and Ashton hadn’t been too eager to spend time with each other, at least not recently. Pre the introduction of Michael and Ashton’s vodka routine, there’d been weeks of therapeutic talks and green tea and trying to squeeze answers out of the younger boy, to no avail. Calum had gone straight for the whiskey approach, and Ashton resented that. The rift that Michael had caused between them seemed almost unfixable. Clearly not.

 

“Well, um, he got a little… restless when he thought something had happened to you. Came and asked if I’d seen you, ended up stopping.”

 

Calum Hood had never been a very good liar; his voice raised and cracked at the end of words, palms visibly clammed up and fists unconsciously clenched whenever he wasn’t being entirely truthful. In the years they had been friends, Michael had never been on the receiving end of this shitty façade, but had been around enough of it to recognise the signs immediately.

 

“Okay, now the truth?” The all-too-familiar teasing in Michael’s voice was drowned out by exhaustion and so, with a sigh, Calum gave him what he’d asked for. The truth, that is.

 

The truth, in its simplest form, was that Ashton was a mess. The first day Michael hadn’t stumbled through his door, painfully hungover and fragile at 4pm, Ashton had practically lost his mind; relentlessly calling Michael’s number and all the family he had, to no avail. His heart told him that something was wrong, and when his head didn’t disagree he searched the streets with watery eyes and fear burning in his stomach. Memories of six months ago and Michael’s desperate cries for death or sleep or anything other than the hell that was the pain of losing his love somehow led Ashton to a door he hadn’t had the need to knock on for months. (Saying that, he didn’t knock then either – more of a brutal shove to the lock and an aggravated collapse into the room). In his fit of fright and rage, he didn’t seem to realise that Michael wasn’t there at all, and that perhaps Calum wasn’t actually the reason for his disappearance. Within minutes, once the shouting had stopped of course, the two boys were curled on the floor, both nervous and desperate and teary-eyed with the thought of everything that could’ve happened to their mutual anchor.

 

At some point during the tale, the shallow heaving of breath had doubled in volume and a muffled sneeze that Michael recognised as an exhausted Ashton Irwin indicated that he was no longer listening to just one person. Calum had mumbled his way through the story – Michael could practically _feel_ the awkwardly empathetic glances his two best friends were exchanging throughout – and paused only twice for a response, which never came. He trailed off with a sigh and an awkward cough.

 

“So, uh, yeah. He’s been here for a couple weeks.”

 

“I…” The tears that began to roll down his cheeks surprised even Michael himself, his words getting caught in his throat as his callous fingers wiped his cheeks.

“I’m so sorry. I’m s-so fucking sorry, I never even thought about you guys.”

 

A somehow endearingly irritated huff interrupted his apology, followed by another irritated whine and a short, mostly inaudible discussion – only _mostly_ due to exclamations of “You fucking baby.” and “That’s not my fault!” and, most alarmingly, “Shut up you absolute fucking granddad.” After a short silence, and another irritated huff that Michael chose to ignore, Ashton spoke up.

 

“You don’t have to apologise to us, Michael. Yeah, you scared us a bit –“

 

“A bit? You fucking-“

 

“Shut _up,_ Calum. You scared us a bit, Michael, yeah but we were just worried about you.”

 

“I’m s-sorry. I love you guys, I just… j-just needed to be alone.” Michael spoke with caution, a twinge of sadness lacing his words as they left his mouth in a whisper.

 

“We get it, Mike, honestly,” Cal’s voice was softer, more understanding now. “We completely get it, but you’ve been alone for so fucking long. It’s time to stop being lonely. It’s time to start getting better.”

 

And, at that moment, as he stared longingly at the moon, curled in one corner of the cold double bed that had become his cocoon – Michael couldn’t help but agree.

 

* * *

 

Time has a funny way of escaping when it’s most needed, Luke had found. Whether that be days crawling agonizingly past as weeks or practically disappearing as seconds, inconsequential blips in the grueling span of a lifetime.

 

Two weeks had become one inconsequential blip that had become very not inconsequential at all, actually. Two weeks had become one desperate sigh, one broken sob, one pathetic whimper into the shitty hotel pillow of the shitty hotel room of the shitty hotel that Luke couldn’t bring himself to leave. He couldn’t bring himself to do much.

 

Luke Hemmings had been inches away from everything he’d missed and craved and longed for whilst on his journey of self-discovery, only to turn and put miles between himself and his heart once again. It was too much, he’d decided; standing beneath the balcony that he once poured his soul out on, watching as an all-too-familiar silhouette traipsed around behind the curtains, the unmistakable scent of pancakes falling from the open window on the fifth floor. His senses were in overdrive, every nerve screaming as _he_ completely overwhelmed him and all his emotions came flooding back, stuck in his throat with the words he was desperate to say. When the curtain shifted and two striking emerald eyes – scarred with pain but glowing with hope – gazed out, Luke lost all strength to stand, and crumbled and stumbled and meandered his way in the general direction of his car, blinded by tears, regret and the anticipation of the old and the new as one.

 

But two weeks had passed regardless of how much he wished they hadn’t, and Luke couldn’t spend one more second holed up in his own downward spiral of anxiety. His hands shook as he repacked his suitcase – the contents of which had been dispersed across the room in a hurricane of rage and sobs – and left it near the door, his entire life once again neatly arranged and ready to continue. The polaroids he clung to so tightly lay on the edge of the bed, protected by the worn leather and crinkled paper of his wallet, stuffed with every penny he had left. It wasn’t much – enough for another two weeks in that hell hole, nightly takeaways and occasional drives included, not that Luke had checked – but he’d managed to survive with barely any money for six months, he could last a little longer.

 

9:52 am. Eight minutes until check out, a fifteen minute drive to the mulit-storey, a six minute walk to the building, two minutes up the stairs to the fifth floor. Thirty one minutes more of waiting. Thirty one minutes on top of two hundred and eighteen thousand, eight hundred and eighty minutes already spent without _him._ Thirty one minutes was far too fucking short and far too fucking long all at once. Luke was a mess, frankly.

 

He sat on the edge of the bed, body shaking as every worry and hope and dream he’d had in the last six months filtered through his bloodstream. He stared at the picture between his fingers; all crinkled and stained and dog-eared, yet still the most beautiful thing Luke had ever seen. He stared at the picture of the only reason he was still alive, the only reason his heart still pumped in his chest and blood round his body, and remembered why he was going home. It was only a dull ache to begin with, a discomfort that was uneasy in his stomach, but as he looked into the breathtaking green eyes he hadn’t seen in so long, an inferno of love and pain and longing and _need_ erupted in his chest and completely consumed him. He was entirely and completely in love with those eyes, even more so in love with the boy behind them – and it was time to tell him that.

 

The receptionist that morning was the happiest person Luke had ever had the misfortune to meet. There was no forced customer service smile, no uber polite yet somehow incredibly impolite greeting, no request to fill in some stupid hotel questionnaire – she was _much_ worse.

 

“Hi there, how was- woah. Are you okay?”

 

Luke blinked. He blinked and he stood and he stared at this stranger, whose eyes now glistened with what appeared to be genuine concern for the exhausted blonde boy in front of her. The shock of the question must’ve been evident in his wide eyes and slight frown, and she chuckled a little before she continued.

 

“You seem pretty stressed or something, I don’t know. I’m not a psychiatrist or anything but man, go do whatever you’re thinking about. You’re gonna give yourself wrinkles.”

 

It was funny, Luke thought to himself, how he’d truly convinced himself that nobody could see the pain that he was going through, and all it took to break that barrier was a slightly nosey, impressively observant hotel receptionist.

 

“Um, yeah. Thanks, I’m… well I’m actually going to do what I’m thinking about right now. So, thanks.”

 

“No problem, buddy.” She laughed, taking the key and money Luke had unconsciously placed onto the desk. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

 

And so he did. Go get ‘em, that is. There was a spring in Luke’s step as he lugged his suitcase to the car; a certain positive outlook that was absent before. The sun seemed that much brighter when the overcasting raincloud of anxiety that loomed over him was gone. It was as if every fear that dwelled in him was gone and replaced by an unparalleled confidence that only increased with every step. Luke was going to make everything better. He could do it. He had to do it.

 

10:18 am. The first cracks in the smile that had graced Luke’s face ever since he left the hotel had appeared, reopening the abyss of panic within him. He was five minutes away from the rest of his life, from the boy who was the key to his happiness and his future and everything he lived for – yet somehow he was stuck. His shoes planted to the concrete on the corner outside a quaint little coffee shop that held a lifetime’s worth of memories; he could hardly call it cold feet, not when every nerve in his system burnt like an inferno under his skin, but it paralysed him all the same.

 

As he stood, thoughts trapping him in his own body, the familiar scent of coffee beans and warm bread sent his senses into overdrive and before he knew it, a bell chimed in his ear and he was in the coffee shop.

 

It was like stepping into another world; an unbelievable juxtaposition of the cold, quiet streets outside. Friends huddled together in cosy circles, laughter that poured from every corner of the room punctuating the comforting soundtrack of porcelain and whistling kettles. The cherry oak that lined the floors and walls was soft and warm, and Luke remembered many evenings spent tapping the panels as he lost himself in the arms beneath him, surveying the room from their own little world on the beanbag in the corner. He remembered watching the sunset through the nautical window beside the table, silent shadows dancing between his fingers and the cup between them. He remembered watching people fall in love over their mugs of coffee, pairs of adoring smiles imprinted into his mind. But mostly Luke remembered how he preferred watching the boy next to him to anything else in the world; the subtle golden flecks in his emerald eyes a masterpiece against the canvas of his elegantly ashen skin. He remembered how the light that shone in highlighted his barely-there stubble and sharp collarbones that peaked out from beneath the holey sweater that always fell off one shoulder. He remembered how evenings in this coffee shop led to awkward walks home, kisses at the door and sleepless nights spent smiling at the ceiling. He remembered how evenings in this coffee shop led to falling in love.

 

In all his reminiscing, Luke almost missed the quiet questioning from the boy behind the counter. He was obviously new, shaking hands as he took Luke’s order, but his awkward smile only made Luke chuckle in his state of nostalgia. When a slightly older looking barista called his name, it came as no surprise to Luke that two drinks were thrust in his direction. Just like it came as no surprise that he added a dash of milk to the second, and another packet of sugar – stirred twice, no more no less. It came as no surprise to Luke that the coffee shop had reintroduced that little bit of routine he’d been missing.

 

Within seconds, he was back on his feet, whispering muffled words of encouragement as the bell chimed in his ear once more and his shoes hit the concrete path that would take him home. He was so entirely focused on continuing to put one foot in front of the other that he didn’t notice the boy approaching until their foreheads collided in remarkable fashion.

 

Luke hit the ground with a grunt, a similarly pained whine erupting from the boy before him.

 

“Fuck, that hurt.”

 

Luke’s breath hitched in his throat. Every apology dried up on his tongue and his eyes widened as they stared back at the one person he hadn’t been expecting to see.

 

“Oh my god.”

 

The boy looked up.

 

“Oh my _god_.”

 

“You.”

 

“You?!”

 

“Oh my god, Cal.”

 

The smile on Calum Hood’s face could’ve lit up the entire city.

 

* * *

 

Michael wasn’t feeling too great, but that was nothing new. The sun that beamed into his irises – sunglasses abandoned this morning, much to the surprise of Mr Gustave, who was really just happy to see Michael out of his apartment at all – felt a little unnecessary, but it was all part of Ashton’s grand plan to happiness. And what Ashton wanted, Ashton got.

 

Which was why Michael had, however begrudgingly, been sat on one particular bench in one particular park for close to an hour, completely alone. Sharp flakes of wood were starting to gather beneath his fingernails; the result of relentless anxious scratching as he waited for Ashton to arrive. His lateness was suspiciously uncharacteristic, almost unheard of from someone so mind-numbingly time conscious, and quite frankly, it wasn’t helping Michael in the slightest. In his panic, he reread the messages for the hundredth time.

 

_From: Ash (9:59am)_

meet at bench, 10:30. I’ll bring coffee. X

_To: Ash (10:28am)_

here early.

hurry up.

 

_To: Ash (10:41am)_

dude it’s cold come on

 

_To: Ash (10:48am)_

??????

 

_From: Ash (10:51am)_

michael, calm down

I’m waiting for cal, was meant to be at mine half an hour ago. X

 

_To: Ash (10:55am)_

should I come to yours?

 

_From: Ash (10:56am)_

NO

stay on the bench, I’m on my way. X

 

The clock on Michael’s phone read 11:14am, and so he resigned to peeling the bench with a nervous sigh. Blood had begun to pool under his lip, teeth too ferociously breaking flesh under the pressure of the unfamiliar situation. This bench was everything he’d been trying to avoid, and now his so called friends had subjected him to the prolonged torture of sitting on it alone, free to do nothing but fight the impending memories. His battle was interrupted by a familiar silhouette.

 

“Mike, I’m _so_ sorry I didn’t-“

 

“It’s cool. Can we leave?” The panic in Michael’s voice would’ve been unidentifiable to most, but Ashton Irwin had learnt to tune into every subtle hint of sadness in his best friend. He stumbled, wide-eyed and confused, to the bench, sitting beside the shaking boy and running a comforting hand down his back.

 

“You okay?”

 

Every fibre of Michael’s body and mind screamed for the easy answer – the “Yeah course, Ash” or “Y’know I’m feeling much better,” – but the weight of his own emotion trapped the lies where they died in his mouth. His cheeks burnt red with shame and fear as tears began to roll down, the hand on his back reaching round further to pull the two boys closer together.

 

“I-I’m sorry.” It was embarrassing, ridiculous, pathetic; Michael couldn’t help the broken sobs that tore through his throat. It’s just that Ashton had always known what was right for Michael, and so however outwardly pessimistic he’d been towards his older friend’s plan to success, there was that soft murmur of hope in that back of his consciousness. The memories that radiated from the bench had plucked that hope from its roots and destroyed it.

 

He hated it. He hated the way Ashton’s eyes were overwhelmed with pity, sadness and the beginnings of something like guilt, and Michael couldn’t even stop crying for two minutes to tell his friend that it wasn’t his fault – nothing was ever Ashton’s fault.

 

“No, Mikey,” His voice was soft, understanding as always. “ _I’m_ sorry. I didn’t mean for you to be alone here, I just… I was waiting for Calum.”

 

At that, Michael couldn’t help but let out a broken chuckle. He had never imagined, even for a second, that he’d hear the boy sat in front of him sound so desperately soft when speaking about Calum. It was endearing, in a strange and suspicious and unfamiliar way. But it was still good.

 

“Where is he?”

 

“I’m not too sure, y’know.” Ashton slipped a hand into his worn denim pocket, pulling out the shitty nokia he’d been using for God knows how long. Michael’s lips twisted in a small smirk seeing such an innocent reminder of before; memories of nights spent cuddled up on Cal’s sofa in _his_ arms, all three spewing harmless insults at Ashton’s choice of technology as he ordered food.

 

( _“Jesus, Ash, it’s the 21 st Century.” _

_“Once you’re done ordering can I run over your phone with a tractor?”_

_“You could put a window through with that thing.”_

_“Oh my god, guys, shut up!”_

_“Don’t tell him to shut up, Ash.”_

_“Yeah, don’t tell me to shut up, Ash.”_

_“Both of you are sickening.”_

_“Fuck off, Calum.”)_

 

“Oh,” Ashton studied the screen with a furrowed brow, confused eyes scanning rapidly. “He got caught up buying coffee, wants us to meet him at his.”

 

And that, well that came as no surprise to Michael. In their many years of friendship, Michael had learnt that Calum Hood could get caught up in doing pretty much anything, from buying coffee to having sex. (Michael wasn’t exactly fond of recalling that particular memory. It was a night of rushed phone calls, sour shots of _God knows what_ alcohol that stung the back of his throat as he swallowed and a lot of staring at one hazel eyed girl that sat alone in the corner of the bar. Calum liked to call it the pinnacle of their friendship; Michael liked to call it a nightmare).

 

With a sigh and a nod, Michael stood from the bench, shaking the last few remnants of wood chips from his fingers like unwanted memories, clinging to his cold skin. He kept his eyes clamped shut as he began to walk with shaky steps, desperately avoiding looking to _that_ corner of the park with _that_ tree and the God damn smiley face that haunted him even with his eyes closed. A warm hand brushed his arm before he could continue.

 

“You know we love you right?”

 

The words hit Michael like a tidal wave. Of course he knew his two best friends loved him – he loved them just as, if not more, sincerely – but the emptiness that still consumed him, the utter loneliness that overwhelmed him had somehow pushed that fact to the side. In his own permanent cocoon of alcohol and sex, Michael had convinced himself that everyone who loved him had disappeared the night _he_ took his heart and left.

 

As he stood there, feet shuffling in indecision and lip sore from anxious teeth bearing down on the soft skin, Michael realised that love had never left. Michael realised that the hazel eyes staring back into his, sparkling with hope and guilt and anticipation, were radiating love, and that the coffee waiting back at Calum’s house was too. Michael realised that the grass beneath his feet, the water that stood still in the lake beside him, the sun that washed his skin red – the world was live and full of love, if only Michael would recognise it. And he did.

 

Michael realised that he was alive and full of love, too. He was alive, he was full of love – and he needed to find the home that he belonged to.

 

* * *

 

The road to Calum Hood’s apartment was disgustingly familiar. Loose gravel lined every path, becoming unsteady false blankets of safety over potholes that seemed to descend to the centre of the earth. The soft greens of the park were nowhere to be seen; neon purple liquor store signs accented the somehow sharp, somehow dull tarpaulin of dusty blue that seemed to take over the sky, with the congested grey of cigarette smoke filtering in with the clouds. Unfamiliar faces stood at every corner, features obscured by hoods or bottles or bruises that seemed to be the only natural colour in this part of the world. The road to Calum Hood’s apartment was dilapidated, degraded and broken. And Michael loved it.

 

As Michael walked, heavy steps synchronised with Ashton’s light sort-of-dance, he remembered how Calum’s eyes lit up when they’d first found the apartment. It was a rainy day, unsurprisingly, and the street seemed even dingier, even lower than it did in the light. But there was a glint of wonder in Calum’s eyes as he took the scene in, whispers of _“Michael, this is so different to home. I love it.”_ cemented his decision, and soon enough a multitude of cardboard boxes and excited shouts were relaying down the road.

 

Michael remembered the first time he opened his eyes to the beauty of Calum’s road. One particularly loose rock had caused him to lose his footing and sent him tumbling gracelessly forward, arms flailing as he prepared to hit the ground.

 

But he could never prepare for what he hit instead. Cold pale skin caught his fingers as his head _flump_ ed into soft fabric, the faint smell of coffee and sugar immediately flooding him. Beautiful cerulean eyes stared back into shocked green. Michael’s heart stopped. In that moment, the sticky grey air that surrounded him was a beacon of light, the bass of the shitty club next to him was background noise – and the loose road was a _fucking miracle._

_“Oh, shit, fuck. I’m really sorry about that.”_

_“It’s okay, honestly.”_

_“No it’s not I’m such a fucking id-“_

_“Why do you smell like liquorice?”_

_“What?”_

_“Your hair. It smells like liquorice. It’s nice.”_

_“Oh, um, thanks.”_

_“You’re welcome, stranger.”_

_“It’s Michael.”_

_“Well, lovely to meet you Michael.”_

The South Town Apartment Village consisted of four worn brick buildings built, rather precariously in Michael’s opinion, to loom over an old, cobbled square. In theory, the slightly askew brickwork and Italian-esque fountain that lay abandoned in the middle of the square should’ve made the so-called village quaint. In reality, it looked like a shit hole. Because it was. A shit hole, that is.

 

The chipped auburn of Calum’s door appeared more of a mahogany under the shadow, Michael had observed as he waited for it to open. Ashton insisted on knocking, ignoring the younger boy’s relentless pleas and demonstrations and _“Ashton I have got the fucking key in my hand, open the door.”_ Ashton Irwin just had to be polite, chiding on about manners and what not. Michael had decided long ago he didn’t care about manners. He’d decided long ago he didn’t care about much. (Which, he’d decided rather recently, wasn’t exactly true. Michael cared about a lot of things, just not as much as he cared about _him_ ).

 

When the familiar creak of copper hinges struck Michael’s hinges, he raised his eyes to see his oldest friend stood before him, dark hair ruffled like it always is when Calum panicked. Green eyes met anxious brown as a single tan arm flailed beside him and-

 

This wasn’t how Michael thought it would happen.

 

There was no build-up. There were no signs. There were no accidental mistaken sightings, no flashes of familiar hair on a street corner, no unanswered knocks on his door. There had been no extra pining over photos, no _“I’m so close to giving up”_ – in fact, Michael had just started to be more determined.

 

There was no big movie moment; fireworks didn’t transform the grey skies above them into a beautiful fantasia of confessions of love and hope and happiness. There was no big movie moment or signs or build-up, because this wasn’t a big movie. This was Michael Gordon Clifford, mouth agape and eyes wide, in the doorway of a shitty apartment block on a shitty street in a shitty town.

 

But the fireworks in his heart made up for it all, when emerald eyes hit cerulean blue.

 

“You.”

 

And, wow. One syllable of the voice that had been home to Michael was enough to set every nerve in his body alight. His skin prickled under the goosebumps that the relentless beating of his heart did nothing to help; his fingers twitched with the electric atmosphere that hit him like a fucking truck. Every inch of his body became alive and still all at once; a tsunami of energy and love and excitement collided with waves of peace and calm and _home_ in his arteries.

 

 _Luke Hemmings_ was stood, inches away from him.

 

“You…”

 

Michael’s voice was a radio; crackling and static and pouring out of his throat with coughs and threats of sobs.

 

“You’re back.”

 

And then skin was on skin, and _holy shit._

 

When Michael was fourteen, he and Calum had celebrated the school year ending with a bonfire in his back garden. It was a quiet night; the stars shone bright in the canvas of the night sky, the crackling of the fire burning into the page. In the midst of the silent happiness, Michael had tripped and fallen into the fire, burning log-shaped swirls into his left forearm. It was an incomparable pain that he couldn’t handle, the searing of his skin sending him spiraling into unconsciousness. When he woke, the burn was starting to heal and there was a gentle warmth that buzzed beneath his skin. Years later, Michael would graze that scar and still feel the memory of the heat.

 

Luke’s arms wrapped around his were more powerful than that heat would ever be. Tears scolded against his skin, muffles of _“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god”_ trapped against the fabric of the shirt of the boy he _loves._

 

“ _Luke.”_

_“Michael.”_

 

The room was quiet, only the soft sobs of the two boys clinging onto each other permeating the silence. Calum and Ashton had long gone, stepping wordlessly away the second the two locked eyes, which already felt like a millennia ago.

 

“I’m so sorry.”

 

It was the first coherent sentence spoken, falling from Luke’s lips like a confession. The tears that swum in his eyes restricted his vision of the boy in front of him, the boy he’d waited so long to see.

 

“No,” Michael shook his head, cheeks wet and body shaking violently. “No, I-I never want to hear, I never want to hear you say those words again. Never.”

 

Luke sobbed, forehead dropping against Michael’s as he closed his eyes. The warmth of his skin, the smell of liquorice, the sound of his voice, regardless of how gravelly and tear-choked – Luke was _home._ Home was safety and love and happiness and the hope of a better future and home was _Michael_ and fuck, if Luke was to ever lose his home again.

 

“ _I love you. I love you. I love you._ I know you don’t want to hear it Michael, but I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” A sob tore through his throat, “I’m sorry for leaving you when everything was so fragile. I’m sorry for leaving you so lost when I was so lost and all we needed was each other. I’m sorry for leaving us two broken pieces when we were the glue and, fuck, Michael I’m so fucking sorry, I fucking _love you_ and-“

 

 _“_ Come home with me, Luke.”

 

Two boys stood, foreheads pressed together and cheeks stained with tears, in the centre of the room. Blue eyes sparkled with guilt and hope and love and the future, green eyes sparkled with guilt and hope and love and the future. Two hurricanes, destined for self-destruction, collided and saved by each other. Two hearts, returned to their rightful destination.

 

_“I’m already home.”_

**Author's Note:**

> So that's it! 
> 
> I hope you loved this final part, and aren't too disappointed by the sort of abrupt ending. I didn't really want to delve into the relationship seen as though I'd given glimpses through flashbacks in every part so I hope that's okay.
> 
> Thank you to absolutely everyone who has read this, honestly I didn't expect anyone to care enough for a second part so to see so many of you be excited for the series to be complete is genuinely heartwarming.


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